“Do I actually have to wear these wooden teeth?” Adam complains, holding his mouth. “They hurt.”

He’s wearing the pair of wooden teeth Mr. Chips brought in today.

I mean the wooden teeth that Mr. Wolcott brought in today.

It turns out that Mr. Chips wasn’t his real name.

“Yes! You are George Washington,” says our new director. “Do you think our first president enjoyed wearing his teeth? Of course not! Imagine a two-by-four hammered into your gums. It’s dreadful. As Shakespeare wrote, ‘I pray thee, peace. I will be flesh and blood; for there was never yet philosopher that could endure the toothache patiently.’ ”

“Uh, okay,” answers Adam, scratching his head.

Mr. Wolcott spurts a lot of nonsense, but he has made the play better already. Tomorrow’s Friday, though. I’m not sure if he has enough time to fix everything.

I was surprised to see Mr. Chips—sorry, Mr. Wolcott—this morning. We were all surprised.

But it was a great idea for Samantha to bring him in. I guess she and Eric cooked up the plan.

It’s just too bad they didn’t cook it up sooner.

Mr. Wolcott immediately took control this morning. Everyone was happy except Maggie. She seemed annoyed, at first. I heard her tell him, “This is my play! Who invited you?”

But then I saw her talking with Eric and Samantha, and she huddled with Lacey and Paige a few minutes later at Paige’s desk. After that, she seemed fine. She actually looked relieved.

Mr. Wolcott is terrific, too. He shows the actors where to stand, how to talk, and even how to project their voices so the entire audience can hear them. He’s on top of everything.

“More regal!” he yells to Lizzie as she walks across the room. “You waddle like a duck. Martha Washington is the First Lady. She doesn’t waddle. Chin up! Shoulders back! No—more bounce!”

Who knew there were so many different ways to walk?

Yow. Yow. Yow.

Mr. Wolcott was a world-famous director, or so he says. He has directed hundreds of plays. Maybe thousands.

Maggie stands next to Mr. Wolcott, nodding her head and smiling.

I can’t remember the last time I saw her smile. Maybe never.

She should smile more. It looks good on her. Her gleaming white teeth are so straight, too.

I think:

With her smile, that nose, and soft eyes to boot—

Who knew a brain like her could be so cute?

“Thrust your arm when you speak,” Mr. Wolcott tells Madelyn. “You’re John Adams! A leader among men! But your hand movements are like that of a girl.”

“But I am a girl,” says Madelyn.

“But your part is not. In the theater you are what you perform. You are playing the part of the great John Adams, our second president. Be him! Feel him! Thrust your arm bravely and with purpose. More thrust! More!”

Madelyn thrusts her left arm forward and accidentally punches Adam in the arm. “Sorry.”

“A little less thrust, perhaps,” says Mr. Wolcott.

Our new director wheeled in a giant trunk this morning. It was crammed with costumes. He gave Adam a George Washington wig, a Revolutionary army coat, and that old set of wooden teeth.

The teeth are old, cracked, and sized for an adult. They look horribly uncomfortable. But they get the point across.

Wooden teeth play a big role in our musical.

Cooper was given a black overcoat, a frilly white shirt, and a white wig. He’s like a shorter, plumper Thomas Jefferson. Somehow he’s already gotten chocolate stains on his shirt, though.

Emmy has a red, white, and blue apron and a simple white bonnet that practically screams, I’m Betsy Ross!

Mr. Wolcott brought costumes for the villagers and the rest of the cast, too.

Yow. Yow. Yow.

He also gave our set decorators ideas—Giovanna and Samantha are painting a giant American flag on an old sheet. A fan will blow on it from the back of the stage so that it waves during the final scene.

Oh, say does that star-spangled banner yet wave

O’er the land of the free and the home of the brave?

That’s not one of my rhymes, but it’s pretty good.

Mr. Wolcott has put Danny and Jasmine in charge of fireworks. He said he wanted a “Grand display!” I’m a little nervous about that. But he can’t mean real fireworks, right?

“A great actor talks from the diaphragm,” Mr. Wolcott tells the cast. “The diaphragm is just below your chest. Speak from your gut. Project your voice. Emote—and stardom shall be yours. Remember: ‘The play’s the thing!’ Or so says Hamlet.”

“Sure. Whatever,” says Adam, looking puzzled.

I notice someone standing behind me. It’s Eric, and I wonder how long he’s been there. “Yeah?” I ask.

“I’ve been working on your play. It’s good, but I have just a few suggestions.” Eric holds up a thick pile of papers. He puts them on my desk. It’s my script, filled with red marks and scribbled words and extra scenes stuffed inside on loose paper. Eric looks down and mumbles, “I hope you don’t mind.”

He has just a few suggestions? It looks like he rewrote the entire thing.

I feel like hurling an eraser at him.

But then I hear Brian and Seth laugh. They’re horsing around in the back.

They’re not laughing at me, or even talking to me lately. They’re still mad because I refuse to throw erasers anymore, and because I’m being responsible and stuff.

I look back at Soda’s empty cage and gulp. She’s still missing, and I’ve looked everywhere. That’s the sort of thing that happens when you’re good for nothing. You lose things, like hamsters and baby brothers.

I turn back to Eric and put down the eraser in my hand.

“Let me see what you have,” I say, flipping over the first page.

“I really liked your songs,” Eric says, “but I thought a few things needed to be more accurate.”

I continue thumbing through his comments.

I have to admit that some of his ideas make sense.

A lot of them make sense.

Okay, all of them make sense.

For instance, Eric doesn’t know where we would get all the fake blood and limbs for the big Battles of Lexington and Concord reenactment.

I guess he’s right.

That scene where the colonists win the Battle of Gettysburg with their army of stormtrooper clones?

Eric crossed out the entire thing.

“Grab a seat and let’s get to work,” I tell him. Eric smiles and sits next to me.

We work through the script, line by line. Every change gets me excited. We are making it better, although losing the superpowered Ben Franklin scenes are hard.

I insist we keep the George Washington wooden teeth stuff, though.

I’m sure his wooden teeth played a big role in the American Revolution.

Well, I’m pretty sure.

Every few minutes someone interrupts us with his or her own ideas. Lizzie insists we need more romance between George and Martha Washington.

“People love romance,” she claims. “That’s why movies always have lots of kissing.”

“Not the movies I watch,” I say.

“The ones I watch do,” Lizzie says, staring at Adam and sighing.

We add in some mushy stuff.

“I want to do an interpretive dance,” says Ryan, spinning over to us.

“Why?” I ask.

“Because I like to dance and everyone loves dancing. In fact, I think I should do two dances, don’t you?”

So we tell her to make up some dances. She smiles and spins away.

Eric and I are still revising when I notice the class has grown quiet. I assume that means something is dreadfully wrong.

I mean, it’s been hours since something has gone dreadfully wrong.

I think of Soda, and I hope the class silence doesn’t mean someone found her and she’s hurt. I’d never forgive myself.

But I’m mistaken. This is not something that has gone dreadfully wrong, but something that has gone dreadfully right. Lizzie stands in front of the room. She holds a cardboard box filled with cupcakes. They have white frosting with red and blue stripes, like little American flags.

“I made these last night to celebrate our play,” she says.

Yow. Yow. Yow.

I was dreadfully wrong about something going dreadfully wrong.

Because nothing can go wrong when cupcakes are involved.

I jump out of my seat and join the rest of the class swarming around Lizzie’s box. I grab the biggest cupcake I see.

“What’s in them?” I ask Lizzie right before burying my teeth into the moist yellow cake.

“It’s sort of a secret, but I think I can trust you guys,” says Lizzie. “I mean, we’ve all kept a much bigger secret, right? Anyway, it’s made with ground tuna. Fudge. Cottage cheese. It’s my own recipe. I call it tuna cupcake surprise!”

Imagine eating old gym shoes wrapped inside a dirty sponge and filled with bologna.

These taste worse.

My taste buds scream in agony. I nudge Lacey out of the way as I dash to the trash can. I spit the cupcake out and keep spitting until every last crumb is gone. But my mouth continues to suffer from the aftertaste, which is even worse than the before taste.

Pretty much everyone in class is gathering around the trash can, spitting cake out of their mouths, too.

Those who have not yet taken a bite of a cupcake look thankful, tossing away their dessert without trying it.

They are the lucky ones.

“These are awesome,” says Adam as he chews his cupcake. He actually swallows it. He has a smile on his face, but sweat drips down his forehead and he looks slightly sick. “Can I have another one?” he asks bravely, with a gulp.

“Of course,” says Lizzie, staring at Adam with a big smile as she chews one of those horrible desserts, too. I’m not sure if she even notices the rest of us holding our throats and gagging.

Adam grabs another cupcake. He takes a bite and smiles, but his hands tremble.

“With my cold, I can’t even taste them,” says Jade, chewing her cake and sniffling. “But I’m sure they’re great.”

I run past them, joining the rest of the class dashing out of the room and toward the drinking fountain.

Fortunately, no teacher sees us running in the halls, holding our throats.